Demimonde
by GrinningDog
Summary: Devastation assails Europe as a consequence of the duality between Soul Edge and Soul Calibur. Either by fire or ice, the world is menaced with impending doom. Two kindred spirits, nightly souls, will see this saga through to its end.
1. Prologue: The Restless Woods

**Prologue: The Restless Woods**

Cradled in sylvan green, a child cried in the faded afternoon sunlight. She hungered. The child lay bare and humid on virgin soil, innocently unaware of the time she had been born into: a world torn asunder by forces beyond flesh and nature, a war of endless reprisal that made puppets out of men and wastes out of the land. It would have been merciful for a beast to devour her out of necessity, than suffer the fate shared by countless, out of cruel inevitability. It was not to be, for seven days she lay pale on the grass without nourishment; seven days and no beast, small or big, did more than a scrutinising sniff.

Come nightfall, Constanta heard a noise in the depths of the forest. A distant, human sound beneath the song of the owls. The seamstress separated from the group around the fire and braved into the jaws of the overgrowth. Her pace, barefoot and bold, accelerated as the sound became clearer. Her heart skipped a beat at realising it was the cry of an infant. What little vision she had, blurred as she plunged further in. Twigs snapped under her feet, and snakes hissed in protest as she ran. The meagre woman cared not. She had already lost a daughter a fortnight ago; she would not let this child die without a hope. When she finally emerged back in camp, an hour had passed since she had left. Her people looked on as she stepped into the fire with a baby in her arms. The warmth of the fire and Constanta's arms eased the child into quiet.

At dawn, Constanta observed the child she had found. She had a few strands of red hair and no umbilical cord. A strange smell of copper lingered about the baby, and it became increasingly feint until disappearing as she bathed the child. Noon came and men wandered off to hunt for dinner while others practiced their craft to earn the collective some passage to the next town. Constanta left the child in the care of her nephew Liviu and his sister Magda while she tailored ornamental curtains in whites, browns and reds. She made sure to work hastily to also sew something for the child.

Constanta, Liviu and Magda had grown to care for the child. It was decided on the third day that the baby would grow under their care, to eventually become part of their small nomadic community. She only needed a name.

"Viola," Constanta decided, coating the child in the mantle she made for her; roses and lilies over a dark mossy green.

* * *

"He's only a child," he heard one of the men say a few metres away. Mihael could not see who, as his eyelids and cheeks were too swollen from the beating and the lashing to see anything beyond a slit. Only a child, he thought; taller, stronger and quicker than most, but still a child, and now death was approaching his way. On any other occasion, he thought he might have wanted to laugh. After all, it had been his decision to leave the monastery at the age of fifteen. He wanted to escape from the rigid lifestyle, and he did so by joining a pack of outlaws. He had grown aggressive and wild, but the teachings of the monastery never quite left him. Instinctively he knew that a rigid approach would have averted this fate.

He could not think of laughing in face of the irony. He might have misbehaved, but there was a very clear line between the atonable and the irredeemable. He had done the right thing in turning down the job, and he was to pay for it. Some of the men said mockingly that they would simply castrate him and let him go, but he knew better. The lynching would soon begin, and life would leave him in brutal fashion. It was the way outlaws died; contorted and unforgiven. Mihael chose to be an outlaw. He accepted his fate.

But he would not allow himself to die without dignity. He resolved to die laughing, to spit at his torturers and curse their descendants. Restrain himself from screaming would be a challenge, but it was the worthiest thing he could do in what little time he had left.

Mihael did not die that day.

In the instant before his slow execution, the inside of his head turned into a deafening roar. All seven of his foes lay in ruins, broken and splattered on the trees around the makeshift gallows. He never felt his body move, and he still had to pry himself free after the carnage had ended. He did not return to camp that day, or to the monastery. Instead, he opted to take himself to unknown grounds; to take a new path. He did not see the strange crescent moon branded on his chest until two days later, given lodge at an inn located in the outskirts of Transylvania.

* * *

 _Transcending history and the world, a tale of souls and swords - eternally retold._

 _The Cursed Sword's corruption threatens to plunge human kind into perennial carnage. One by one, the people of Europe fall before the influence of Soul Edge. Only the Spirit Sword can stop the tainting, yet a cold and dead future awaits in its dominion. The apocalypse approaches._

 _Graced and damned, anointed in the forest where horrors dwell and heroes perish, a fold of two will traverse the dark towards inevitable war and devastation in order to prevent the doom of all human kind._

 _Thus begins the story of the Seer and the Beast on one night in Milan._

 _January 1st, 1607..._


	2. Chapter 1: Weary Soles

**Chapter 1: Weary Soles**

Nights brought respite to some, opportunity to others, and untimely death to some unlucky few. Viola has travelled enough to learn that all three axis of fate often met at places like inns. Despite the facade all weary, hungry travellers wear at crossing the threshold, some truth can be read in their eyes. She had come to know that each soul come to an inn is truly a story concealed behind a veil as thin as sobriety; it was a form of divination for which she did not require her work asset and companion. Traditionally, she cared little about knowing the stories behind people's words and eyes. On this night, she would avoid it at all costs. All she sought was a place to rest for a while on her way to Chiaravalle Abbey, unrecognised. She made sure to hide the silver locks of her hair under the shroud she carried and to keep her head down, averting her ruby coloured eyes from all who may look in her direction. Her asset she held closely in her arms.

The inn was fairly busy and loud. Many men and women had come to drink their fill, to boast and to seduce; some more devious individuals would often be present to take benefit from one or another. Viola's experiences had taught her ways to avoid all, though they were not always without fail. For her current purpose, a stooping, broken posture helped to disguise herself as an old woman wearing a shroud. The blood streaming down her face was dry and stale-coloured enough to appear as filth; the stone that struck her half a day ago and her brief negligence to wash herself served some benefit, after all. Such an attack against her person was not uncommon, but something went different this time around. She was being followed.

Viola started thinking on the possible identity of whoever followed her steps. She was rarely appreciated in her craft, for she held no interest in entertaining the desires of her clients. It was not truth they sought from a fortune teller, but hope, a voice to reflect back what they yearned for in hushed dreams and heartbeats out of rhythm. Only on few occasions did truth and hope meet, though most of the time her words were a bitter taste to swallow. She knew men and women were a petty kind, rarely taking in her words with temperance. So that which she offered, that nobody else could, was often met with spite and violence. She was often chased out of the towns, or spat on and thrown dust at. On the previous day, a furious customer cast a stone at her head, which struck, leaving a trail of blood down her scalp. It could be, she thought, that the customer thought this a lacking payment for her service.

She feared not. Although she never fought back against these offences, she was truly quite capable to repay in kind, twofold even. Yet her life was an ordeal to suffer one day at a time; every decision mattered. So she kept her aggravation bound within, for she knew it would pass, and shrouded herself, letting the blood mingle with her argent locks to make for a brief disguise while she found a place to stay the night. An inn was out of the question if she was being pursued. Even the most austere of churches had an alcove in which her modest frame could fit. Not to mention, people preached themselves too pious to risk a bloody deed in anointed grounds. All she needed was half an hour to rest her feet, and a morsel to calm her stomach. It had been a day since she last ate; some light and frail thing would do. She could afford more, but a spender always attracted attention.

Viola was not blind to the irony of her trying to avoid being seen. The dress she wore, which she covered with her shroud, was not a conspicuous attire. She had it made a couple of months ago, and she often went through difficulties to keep it well maintained as she travelled. The dress had little relevance in itself, but she had seen a design of its sort in a dream. She never remembered her dreams upon waking, and she often doubted she had the ability to dream. For an image to prevail in her thoughts after waking was as rare. Without memories of her own, or emotions nurtured by anything other than instinct, a lasting image carried deeper significance. To some inexplicable rationale, she believed the appearance of the dress was a clue to a past unattainable. The dress, dark in colour, and abundant with frills and lace also served to attract a clientele with deeper pockets.

She spared few words to ask for a serving of the porridge by the fire and spared none for a serving of wine. The latter was a luxury she afforded only for a more appropriate occasion, of which she found plenty, living life as a wandering soul. Halfway done with the bowl, she sensed a slight vibration of the object she carried under her cloak. Quattor Orbis, she called it: a crystal ball she could pass off as a soothsayer's tool, for such was the use she allowed others to see. In it, she could read into the souls of all others, except for herself, much to her disappointment. In time, she learned to read other things in her crystal ball, things unmentionable and wicked. Although distant and lonesome, she was no stranger to the common knowledge that a taint was on the prowl for the souls of all: malfestation. As she ate, she felt her orb glowing red and warm.

She was to make for a safe place soon if she wanted to avoid trouble. Times before she has warned the peoples of bloodthirsty parties approaching, always related to malfestation. Her words were never heeded. Perhaps, she thought, one day she might return to these ways. Not tonight. She had no ally in the world but herself; she knew many others had died contorted and unforgiven when becoming involved. Viola's purpose was to discover the truth behind her existence. She left a florin on the table at leaving, as quietly as she could. Exhaustion still burdened her step. Even as she walked outside and found quick shelter in the shadows on the way to the Abbey, she felt eyes on her.

* * *

Just as she had anticipated, the abbey was deserted on this moonless night. Whereas some would opt to spend the night on a bench, or huddled up inside a confessionary, she chose to squeeze her way into a small alcove between the confessionary chamber and a thick column, far away from the entrance. These places were often overlooked in favour of the obvious; all at the expense of comfort. One hour into her sleep, her precaution proved sound. From her shelter in shadows and obstructed space, she woke to see a cloaked figure sitting on a bench. Judging by the ample shoulder length and the size of its shadow, she knew it to be a man, perhaps taller than the average. He sat slumped, yet he did not seem to at prayer. Quattor Orbis' colour did not signal him as a threat, but she could not risk 'reading' him at that moment.

Viola sunk back into slumber, but periodically opened her eyes to see if he was still there. His presence was constant throughout the night. Light slowly poured into the abbey with the coming of dawn. The man grunted awake with a deep, though somewhat youthful voice. He removed the hood of his cloak as he shook the drowse off his eyes. Viola found the ashen grey strands amidst his black hair peculiar and unfitting for a man who looked no more than a few years older than her. The stranger seemed not to notice her furtive presence, given the time he took checking himself, looking for loose buckles and open pockets. His attire was as suitably strange as the man's appearance; dark leather pants and a worn cavalry coat, which she assumed stolen.

While his right hand tightened the buckles on a riding boot, his left hand searched in a pocket on his coat. He pulled out a small cloth bag and a brief piece of brown waxed paper. He took a pinch of the fibrous dark substance in the bag and spread it out on the paper, rolling it and putting it to his mouth. He searched the sleeve of his boot for a black, shapeless strap of leather. He produced a small flint stone and rubbed it against the leather in one motion, creating a spark and a flame on the strap. He wasted no time in igniting the thin roll hanging from his lips before the fire went out. Viola thought it too elaborate a process for a puff of smoke. However, he seemed to think it worth the trouble as he bent his head backward with a serene, relaxed expression. Only then she managed to see his face. His features were generously proportioned, and reminded Viola of the men her clientele often sighed about. His complexion was slightly burned, like leather.

The stranger finished his tobacco and extinguished the dregs on his fingertips. He crossed himself and stood up. As he got up from the bench, Viola caught the glimpse of a blade, casting a flash as it hung from his belt. He walked out of the abbey, leaving a more lasting impression on Viola than most people. She waited for several minutes to exit the alcove and shake off the ache off her back, hips and legs. She walked toward the stoup to wash away the dried blood off her hair and face. Now aware of the smell of two days' travel, she used the opportunity to quickly wash herself before the day's services began. She had no oils at hand to improve her scent, but she was content with what she had.

She got dressed and made her way out, though she hesitated for a moment. She was alone, yet she thought of the stranger sitting still at that place on that bench. The image of him crossing himself at that holy place, only for her to take a more intimate liberty in it possessed a most peculiar impression. She could probably find a Bible nearby to read the Song of Songs as a remark on the event if she wanted to pursue the contrast past the point of irony, towards its most traditional Hebrew sense. She surprised herself at thinking this, but she could not afford to waste the early hours. After all, in time she would forget about him.

* * *

Out in the daylight, she made way for the nearest town. Yet she still felt watched.


	3. Chapter 2: Strangers in the Night 1

**Chapter 2: Strangers in the Night (Part 1)**

All his life, he has taken pride in being a quick learner. Whatever the skill, he would find a way to become proficient at it, if not at least competent. As grew older, his peers started calling him a "do it all", as the theatrical usage would so succinctly express. The connotation bothered him to the point of nurturing a very personal obsession to avert it. Thusly, he worked incessantly to improve certain talents in particular. Years past his adolescence, the voices around him became meaningless, for he knew most could not quite match him about those talents he had chosen to master. He had become his most unforgiving judge, and he knew that would only see him becoming stronger. This was part of his code, a way forged in both order and chaos, constantly honed mentally.

Nothing comes from nothing. Life, however short it may be, is an art that must be enhanced from its early stages; but the principles and core values must never be discarded. The first incarnation of the idea did not actually occur to him alone. He had heard it said on one starless night from the mouth of an English corsair, deep in his cups and waxing poetic. The man had led a life of tragedy, and the only grace for him was the awareness that he had learned to better cope with the pain he felt. "Zwei Was Eine Initially". Although slurred and forgotten by the corsair come sunrise, the words remained with him long after they had parted ways. A year passed since, and much had transpired in that time. He was not only himself anymore. Surviving near death, he rose twofold the man he was before. There now was more to him than the pursuit of excellence, and wanderlust. He now had a cause.

 _"Zusammen Wir Erobern Immer."_

He had become his code, in nearly every single aspect. It only made sense for him to take it as his name. Thus, he became Z.W.E.I. He had learned quick and well how to ride a horse, how to fight and how to win, and in his eyes, he never did stop learning. All of his skills he would use towards the end he sought.

However, for all he often tried to think of himself as an idea incarnate, he knew he was only a steadfast believer at his strongest; fallible and susceptible as everybody else. He too needed to rest and treat his wounds, to relieve his necessities and to occupy his mind, and at that moment he certainly needed to eat. As he walked out of the Chiaravalle Abbey, he felt his stomach groaning in protest. The last meal he consumed had been processed nearly a day ago, and he felt his body starting to eat itself. He knew he could be looking at one more day on an empty stomach. As a wanted man, he knew to expect peril without and lacking within. Yet, how further could he travel on an empty stomach and scarce hours of slumber poorly slept?

Were he in the place of the assassins on his trail, he would choose that very day to claim his head. At first, the men pursuing him were common foot soldiers, easily dispatched and hardly a menace. Yet, as time passed and his reputation grew, more and more capable men were issued for the task. On the last encounter, he barely managed to kill his attackers. Soon, he may struggle to even incapacitate them. Furthermore, being an enemy of Graf Dumas meant being an enemy of the Holy Roman Empire in the eyes of many. Istvan Bocskai was dead, and his collaborators had few willing allies amongst the masses.

Z.W.E.I. himself was seen as the vilest of criminals. Scores of murders amongst the populace had been attributed to him, although he was only responsible for those of Dumas' men. While some of the Graf's knights were praised as hunters of the blight that scourged the continent, the innocents that they killed were placed on Z.W.E.I.'s fault. The longer the blood ran with impunity, the harder his task became. The way he saw it, he would need to risk exposure to regain his strength. Otherwise, Dumas' assassins may get the best of him at waning strength, which would still be depleted as he travelled. Thus, he shrouded himself in his hood and took back alleys and sombre passageways in search of food to steal. To live one day more was his priority, to kill Dumas was his ultimate goal.

* * *

Viola weighed her options. Her purse was feeling light, so it was in her best interest to practice her craft. After this, her way urged her travel to the next town. Nonetheless, a glance at Quattor Orbis revealed something that greatly disturbed her: a bright red aura within the crystal core, so intense and deep that it looked like freshly spilt blood. This signalled a considerably stronger malfested presence than most of the time, and this always meant bloodshed to come. She could choose to be on her way, to stay safe and far from unwelcome eyes. Or she could choose to stay and warn the people to wait out the coming storm behind closed doors. She had often done the latter, every time in vain. Still, she was not without compassion.

She went about the city, into diners and marketplaces, outside of churches and schools, every time setting her crystal ball in front of her and observing the world unfolding with eyes that mystified and enraptured. On every reading, she asked to be paid beforehand. She would look into the crystal ball, and think quickly on how to say what she saw. Being obsessively read as she was, the starkest and cruellest of her visions were delivered cryptically and beautifully. Then she would be insulted and called a liar, when her insight was actually the truest; and if needed be, she would flee skilfully, carrying a heavier purse at the end.

Every time, she felt troubled and haunted by the same recurring thought. The harassing sensation that she was being followed may be consequence to something greater than a spiteful client. With an annoyed grimace, she contemplated the notion of staying this time. Perhaps she might bring herself to endure the storm behind closed doors, or a window in her most unique fashion. With a discreet hand, she pulled out five silvery blades from the inside of her cloak. Regardless of what course of action she chose to take, precaution was imperative.

As she put her cloak back on, retiring to eat, she wondered if the stranger at the Abbey on the night before was somehow involved in this affair. She knew he was armed, though she sensed no ominous intent in his presence. Overly pious men always struck her as self-righteous and especially dangerous in their convictions; he did not seem akin to that sort. She soon pushed his image out of her mind as she readied herself. This time, she did afford to have a serving of wine. It was not a remarkable grape she tasted, but it agreed well enough with her tongue. She welcomed the warmth and the shiver that it often caused in her.

* * *

Dusk fell on Milan. Viola could feel the air growing thicker, like a miasma of anxiety and unease. She was not the only one who could feel it. The sensation rattled all about the town, as word travelled that a malfested had been found by Graf Dumas' men. Viola had heard this name before, in hushes and praises. Wherever his influence extended to, eventfulness always unfolded. People would be pushed out of their homes by their own friends and relatives upon judgment of malfestation. Tears were shed and sons were disowned. Women were violated and children were left behind. All of this she had heard before, yet now she was about to see it happening as people hurried indoors.

On all those occasions she heard about, it was never just one malfested they found. Sometimes it would be dozens. Sometimes they would be aided by criminals who were said to despise the laws of God and man, murderers and thieves with corrupted souls and a tongue crafted for deceit, people who found spiritual kin amongst the malfested. Unlike most people, Viola knew to keep a sceptic mind. She had always been somewhat perturbed at the mentions of this Graf Dumas. That evening, upon seeing an elderly woman being taken from her family by lancers in white, she realised the process of judgment was arbitrary and lacking in reason. She knew this well, for Quattor Orbis showed no taint in her.

The red glow in her orb remained, nevertheless. As she saw the woman being gruesomely executed in the middle of the street, the seer instinctively hurried towards a back door, cursing herself for the choice she was making. The revelation she had prompted her so. Exiting into a back alley, she discarded her cloak and attached thin steel claws to the fingers on her right hand. She ran through the streets, following the advancing of Dumas' men, and the anguished screams of the 'malfested'. Her better mind opted against it, but she was well into the deed when she levitated Quattor Orbis to her side, ready to strike.

She was too focused on the anticipation of her first strike that she failed to notice a sound three metres above. A man fell crashing out of a window, driven towards the ground by another. The man was dead before he even hit the floor, and soon was joined on the ground by his attacker and a rain of glass and his own blood. His killer fell on top of him, with a knee on the man's stomach and the hilt of his sword against the hollow between his clavicles. Viola recognised him as the man she saw at the Abbey. His bright blue eyes shot into her red eyes as he turned to look at her. For a fraction of a second, they remained in place, looking at each other, trying to make sense out of the situation while the world around them was soon to come down.

"Look out!" He yelled.


End file.
